Among the few things I am very sure about is the fact that if people always knew up front what they were getting themselves into, nobody would ever do anything remotely interesting. If prospective emigrants knew about all the challenges that come with leaving their home country, they would stay home. If prospective students knew how much work goes into getting a degree, they would decide they could do without one. If prospective arts managers knew what it’s like to work in the arts, they would choose a different career path. What I haven’t quite figured out yet is why people who have already had these challenging experiences decide to go through them again. Why do people who have lived abroad decide to leave their home country again? Why do people with a degree decide to get another one? And why do people go back to working in the arts after having had a less nerve-wrecking career? The greatest mystery of all, though, is why people who should know better decide to do all these things at once, or in other words: why on earth did I decide to move abroad and get a degree in arts management?
The moving circus started on Sunday, when I decided that it was far more reasonable to bring only one bag to London and to leave half of my stuff at home. In order to accomplish that heroic act, I enlisted the help of my little sister, who, when I showed her a particular item, had to point out why I could leave said item at home. Within three hours we went from ‘No, you do NOT need nine notebooks! I am sure they have much nicer notebooks in London!’ to ‘Are you kidding me? When did you last use those running shoes?’ and from two bags to one. My sister was so great at her job that not only did I leave behind half of the notebooks I wanted to bring, I also left behind half my winter coat. Also, I was very proud when it came home to me that instead of carrying the bag with the remaining items down to the bathroom scales I could just take the bathroom scales upstairs to my bag. Although I shed a few tears during my packing (or rather un-packing ordeal), I am very glad I brought only one bag because otherwise I would not have made it to my destination. The one bag I took with me was giving me more than enough trouble because it decided to assert its freedom and went wheeling all through tube by itself although I thought I had safely stored it. The unfortunate thing was that I could not immediately go chase it because I had my backpack and my violin between my feet, an open bottle of water in the right and the lid for the water bottle in my left hand. Therefore, the only thing I could do was stare at the bag, willing it to come back until a very nice young Danish gentleman caught it and brought it back to me.
The flat hunt was another drama. The moment I entered my preferred location for a flat and the amount of money I would willingly part with into a search engine and was offered a parking space, I knew that finding a suitable place to stay in London would be a challenge. Nevertheless, I thought it would be a great idea to give up my amazing apartment in Vienna in order to live in a city whose one distinguishing feature is the unavailability of affordable living space. Thus, I moved from my lovely penthouse into a temporary flat with no fewer than nine cats and was so happy about the whole situation that I began to wonder if I was so at peace with myself because I was being guided by a higher being or because I had had some kind of breakdown. Be that as it may, I had the perfect plan and thus decided to spend day one of the flat hunt checking out areas I thought I might want to live in. This meant that I roamed the city using public transport and marked each and every area that did not make cry and want to call my mum and ask if I could move back home on a map. After five and a half hours of searching for decent living areas, chasing London’s most elusive bus (number 53 towards Whitehall) and taking the decision that I had spent more time in Plumstead than any human being should ever spend in Plumstead, I felt I had done my work and it would be a good idea to go home lest some surveillance person at Transport of London started wondering why there was a crazy-looking woman going around the city in circles.
Day two of the flat hunt was spent walking around the areas I had put on the list of possible new hoods for me (basically anything near Canada Water) and writing the occasional tentative email, while on day three I finally managed to go to an actual viewing. I went to look at a room of about 12m² in Canary Wharf, very reasonably priced at 899 Pounds per month. The website had said that it would be a 5-10 minutes walk from the metro to the flat. Google maps said it would be 13. As I have a tendency to get lost, I gave myself half an hour. Unfortunately, there was major construction work going on AND I got lost twice, so it took me 45 minutes, which is bad even by my low standards. Had I not run most of the way, it would have taken me an hour. The next flat I wanted to look at was much closer to the metro but in an area so hopelessly labyrinthine that not only would I never find my way home, I could also see myself getting mugged already. In order to find the place, I even had to ask for the help of three rather rough-looking young men, who were surprisingly eager to help and did not mug me. Summing up, the best day about day three was the fact that I could be sure day four was going to be better.
It wasn’t! To be honest, I cannot really remember what I did on day four except that I went to look at a room in the middle of nowhere and decided that living in a safe and residential area would be my version of hell. About halfway into the search, I completely lost my faith in my ability to correctly read a map and just kept asking people for the way, which did not only give me the opportunity to talk to a very kindly person who called me ‘Luv’ but also made me enlist the help of a man who, upon second thought, was probably a drug dealer. To be honest, I was not really in the mood for looking at flats because I felt I had more pressing matters to attend to: I needed a music stand. That proved to be rather more difficult than expected because the first two music supply shops were closed (for good, and after seeing the areas they were in that was no surprise), the third (a luthier) was so fancy that he only saw people by appointment and the fourth, which finally sold me a music stand, was hard to find. The good thing, though, is that I got to see places that I would not have seen otherwise (Deptford High Street, anyone?). Unfortunately, by this point basically all my toes were covered in the biggest and most painful blisters I had ever had. When I could barely walk, I had to pop into Marks and Spencer to buy myself a new pair of sneakers (because, you guessed it, I left my second pair of sneakers at home), which are so big and colourful that I will also be able to use them in case I ever come up with a clown routine.
Finally, there came a point at which I felt it was justified to engage in a major pity party. I had spent four days on a flat hunt and the only thing I had to show for it were painful and blistery feet, the knowledge that London realtors use photoshop to a degree that would make any graphic designer jealous and the realization that it was impossible to get a decent room at a reasonable price. And then it hit me. I did not want a fine room in a decent area at a reasonable price. I am not a reasonable person. In fact, the whole moving-to-London-thing was one giant act of unreasonableness. So instead of looking for a decent room in a reasonable area, I’ll look for a super fucking great room in a place that makes me happy. And instead of looking for flatmates, I’ll start looking for friends. In short, instead of looking for accommodation, it’s time I started looking for a home.
Summing up, after my first week in London, I still have absolutely no clue what moved me to leave my home, my family, my friends and my job in order to come here. I have absolutely no clue why I am feeling so damn happy and elated although things are far more complicated, uncertain and uncomfortable than they were back home and I have only a very vague idea of what the next year will bring. What I do know, though, is that whenever things get too uncomfortable, I can build myself up with a piece of wisdom my friend Rachel once shared with me. ‘Comfort is for old age. Vienna will always be there. And Coventry.’
